


The Triumph of Magic

by MinnieQuill (odainath)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 13:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17725898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odainath/pseuds/MinnieQuill
Summary: After Ron abandons them, Harry and Hermione take on the challenge of finding and destroying the Horcruxes.  HHr.





	The Triumph of Magic

_“I prefer to accept only one type of power: the power of art over trash, the triumph of magic over the brute.”_

Vladimir Nabokov 

* * *

  _“It’s you and me, then?”_

She looks at the tent floor and he is horrified to see tears running down her cheeks leaving damp tracks in their wake.  He reaches out and takes her hand in his own, squeezes her fingers.  She swallows, closes her eyes, bites her bottom lip

_“I guess so.”_

Her voice doesn’t sound like Hermione’s, it sounds like an echo, and he doesn’t want to admit how terrifying that is.  He leads her to the bed in the corner and sits her down with firm arms, trying to ignore how defeated she seems.  She keeps her head down, her eyes unopened and he casts a final look in her direction before he turns and flicks his wand in the complicated motion he has seen her do so often in the past few months.

Their possessions stay exactly where they are.  The tent doesn’t disassemble itself, pack itself away.

He fights the urge to swear as he strides across the room but stops short when everything flies around him.  Clothes fold themselves into suitcases, shrink into duffel bags.  Tent pegs pull from the earth, leaving holes in the dirt and the tent squeezes into a canvas bag.

He looks over his shoulder; she’s motionless, though her fingers are wrapped tightly around her wand.

“Thank you,” he says gratefully, swinging the bags over his shoulders.

She doesn’t respond as she rises to her feet, every movement jerky and stiff.

“Let’s try Godric’s Hollow again,” she whispers, reaching for his hand.

Her skin is cold to touch and he opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but they’ve disapparated with a _‘pop.’_

_-o-_

He isn’t sure what he’s doing but they look around his parent’s small house again, casting _‘revelio’_ more times than he cares to count.  He stands in the doorway of what had been his bedroom, at the crib that’s still in the corner and closes his eyes.  Immediately his mind fills with the image of a pale face, red-eyes, and the sound of high-pitched laughter.

_“Stand aside, you silly girl!”_

Every muscle in his body tenses and he barely notices when Hermione pulls him from the bedroom and leads him down the small staircase.

“I’m sorry,” she says when they get outside.  “We shouldn’t have come back.”

He shrugs one shoulder, doesn’t look her in the eye.  “It’s okay.”

She opens her mouth to say something but the words look to die in her throat.  Finally, she nods and turns away, goes back into the tent.  She leaves the flap ajar, ready for him to come back in when he chooses.

He looks at the sky, at the surrounding street and fancies he can see a streetlight die in the far distance. 

When he finally goes inside the tent, she is already asleep.

_-o-_

Ron’s absence is most noticeable at night and Harry pretends not to notice how Hermione shuts down when the sun sinks beneath the horizon.  She’ll still talk, still pore over maps and charts and parchment covered in runes and charms he hasn’t a chance of understanding, but she’s not the same girl who cast birds at a boy’s head and sent him running out the portrait hole.

She’s an echo.

_-o-_

They make their way around the coastline, to places that seem less-and-less likely.  The orphanage that Riddle grew up in has been demolished and high-rise apartments built in their wake.  The cottage of his mother is a ruin, the stone walls covered in moss and the front door caved in.

Nonetheless, they tread quietly as they go inside, wands held out before them.  A good thing too as a snake slides across Hermione’s shoe and she jumps a good two-foot in the air.  He manages to catch her before she falls to the ground but she pushes herself upright in an instant, looking furious with herself.  The snake hisses, flicks its forked tongue, raises itself up to strike.  She whips her wand from her pocket, and a quick ‘slash’ sends the snake flying out the open window.

“Hermione-“

She doesn’t say a word as she walks further inside though he notices that she steps on tip-toe.

_-o-_

That night she wakes up with a faint scream and he’s at her side in a second, shaking her awake.

“Snakes,” she gasps, “Snake everywhere.  And Voldemort-“

“Isn’t here,” he finishes, drawing her close. 

She shakes in his arms and clings to him like a life ring, her fingers curling in the fabric of his pyjama shirt.  Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes in great gulps of air until, finally, _finally,_ she stops trembling.  Harry is horrified when she pulls back and he realises he’d been holding her just as tightly.

“Thanks, Harry,” she whispers, pink rising over her cheeks. 

“No problem,” Harry says, well aware of the patch on the shoulder of his shirt, damp from the tears that still continued to fall down her cheeks.

She hunches into herself and turns away, facing the tent wall.  Harry wants to say something, _anything_ to comfort her, but settles – as he all-too-often does – for silence.

_-o-_

They find themselves on a hilltop, miles away from any villages, magical or muggle.  It’s another unlikely location, a spot where orphans could go for a ‘summer vacation’ in the outdoors.  Harry tries to imagine a child Voldemort, traipsing up the hill with a heavy bag full of possessions.  He can’t picture Voldemort feeling any attachment to the spot, but they had to try, try again until they found _something._

“Here, this will do,” Hermione says, tracing a circle of protective charms around their already-assembled tent.

Harry doesn’t respond, just waves his own wand and makes a crude fire with the characteristic blue, wizarding flames.  He grabs food from his backpack and silently cooks their dinner, glancing at Hermione who sits on a conjured chair, staring at the flames.

“I miss school,” she says suddenly. 

He pauses as he siphons food onto two plates, not saying anything, trusting that she’ll continue.

“I miss the normalcy of it.  Get up in the morning, eat breakfast, go to class.  Finish class, back for lunch, go to another class.”  She glances at the sky, grey and overcast, threatening to rain at any second.  “I miss school work, I miss a warm bed.  I miss…”  She looks down, raises her knees up, curls into a ball.  “I miss…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to.  Harry knows what she was going to say.  _Miss people.  Miss him._ He grabs her plate of food and conjures his own chair next to her, and holds it out.  She looks to the side, and takes it with a shaky hand.  She reaches out with her other hand and grasps his, holding tightly, wanting any form of human contact.

It’s difficult to eat with one hand, and he nearly drops his fork more than once, but Harry has no wish to let go. 

-o-

_R.A.B._

_Regulus Arcturus Black._

It seems so painfully obvious.

They’re back at Grimmauld Place when Harry catches sight of the tapestry.  Right beneath the burn where Sirius’ name is stitched.  _Regulus Artcurus Black._ He nudges Hermione, points at the wall.

“Hermione, look.”

She gets it quicker than he did and turns to him, eyes wide.  “Could it… well, of course.  But how did he…?  The lake?”

Her words come out in a rush and Harry pauses, thinking of the lake, of the boat, of himself and Dumbledore.

“He needed a second person, someone that wouldn’t register…” he says softly, remembering the offering of blood, the sea of dead bodies, forcing Dumbledore to keep drinking the potion

“Kreacher,” Hermione interrupts.  “I doubt a house-elf would register.  And didn’t Sirius say that Regulus helped Voldemort?”

Harry nods, snaps his fingers.  Kreacher appears out of thin air.  His loincloth is still filthy, he still sneers insults at himself and Hermione, but he answers their questions and slowly the story becomes clearer. 

“Oh, Kreacher,” Hermione says softly, placing a hand on the house-elf’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry.”

Kreacher looks up, eyes watering as he chokes on Regulus’ name.  For the first time, he doesn’t insult Hermione.  Instead, he looks at the floor, shuffles his feet, takes a deep breath as he prepares to answer more questions.

“And then, Kreacher?” Hermione asks.

The elf doesn’t have to answer Hermione, she’s not his master, but he does so anyway.  Perhaps finally realising that she is someone to be respected, not mocked.

They learn of Mundungus’ thievery, and Harry vows to track him down, find him and the locket.

“Kreacher?” Harry says, after the tale finally finishes.

“Yes, Master?”

“I cannot thank you enough.”

 Kreacher dissolves into sobs.

-o-

They’re in the Ministry, hidden with an assortment of charms and disguises, when Harry sees the locket on its chain around Dolores Umbridge’s fat neck.  He elbows Hermione, points toward the witch they both loathe to the highest degree.  She thrusts her shoulders back, snaps a muggle-born’s name and orders them to the podium in the center of the room.  Once there, she barks questions until she points toward the open door, her dismissal clear.

“Their wand,” she adds to the wizard standing guard, “remember to break it in two.”

The locket gleams suddenly as if in a burst of elation, the emerald’s bright, and Harry realises that she’s feeding off its darkness, from the inherent evilness of the Horcrux.  Of course, with someone as vile as Umbridge, this should hardly be surprising.  The wizard nods and ushers the muggle-born away into the adjoining room.  In the hallway, a line of muggle-born’s await their trial.  All look haggard, scared, and Harry vows to get the wretched woman away from the Horcrux.

He and Hermione slip into Umbridge’s office, disillusion themselves to blend in with their surroundings and wait.  Hours slip by, minute by excruciating minute until the door opens and Umbridge steps into the room.

_“Stupefy!”_

Both Harry and Hermione’s voices ring out and send Umbridge flying against her desk, knocking her possessions onto the floor.  Papers scatter everywhere, files fall out of order, but Harry doesn’t care as he strides over and tears the chain from around Umbridge’s throat.  The want to _hurt_ the woman burns strong as he remembers the hours spent writing _‘I must not tell lies’_ in a room watched by gamboling kittens, of her fake smile at Dumbledore’s funeral, but Hermione catches his elbow and guides him from the room.

“She’s not worth losing yourself, Harry.”

-o-

Bellatrix Lestrange is a vile and abhorrent human being; he’d be a fool not to recognise that by now, but Harry remains surprised by just _how_ easily the Cruciatus curse falls from her lips. 

_“Crucio,”_ she says for the umpteenth time, and Hermione screams and falls to the ground, writhing in agony. 

Harry struggles against his ties with all his might but can’t break free.  Another _‘crucio’_ , another scream and Hermione rolls onto her back, arms spread, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, unconscious.

“We’ll start on you then, Potter.”  Bellatrix spits in Hermione’s direction and moves forward, trailing her wand tip over his clothes.  She’s releasing some sort of charm that makes the wand glow in the otherwise dark room and Harry smells his own burning flesh.  He flinches away from the wand and she laughs in his ear, taking a knife from her pocket and slicing through the already burned flesh.

“Potter, Potter…” she croons, sounding almost motherly, “how I’ve longed for this…”

A _‘thud’_ and Bellatrix falls to the ground.  The knife and her wand fall from her hands and Hermione kicks the knife away, breaks the wand in half with a resounding _‘crack.’_   She’s holding a wooden bar in her hand, used to keep the dungeon door shut to intruders.  There’s blood on the tip and Harry can see red pooling around Bellatrix’s head, some sort of mocking tribute to an angel’s halo. 

“Come on,” Hermione says, cutting away Harry’s bindings and helping him upright.  “We need to get into her vault.”

She performs a number of healing charms and Harry feels instant relief as his burns melt away and his skin mends itself.  She goes to turn, but he shakes his head and pulls her forward, tapping his own wand to the back of her head, mending the bloody lump that has already formed.

“I’m glad you taught us that one,” he says with a smile.

She nods toward the door and Harry realises his mistake with his use of the word ‘us’.  “We need to get into her vault,” she repeats.  “And quickly.”

-o-

The sheer wealth on display is astounding and Harry stands in awe in the middle of mountains of galleons, of jewels, of other priceless artifacts.  Hermione doesn’t spare them a second glance as she clambers up the huge piles, searching for Hufflepuff’s cup. 

“Where on earth-?” he hears her mutter.  “Must be somewhere…”

Harry scans his eyes around the room, searching for _any_ trace of the tiny goblet.  He sees the sword first, rubies gleaming red in the brightly lit room.  The cup is hanging from its hilt, dangling over the mountains of coins and he calls _‘wingardium leviosa’_ and levitates both the cup and sword into his outstretched hands.

“Good thinking,” Hermione says, running to his side.  “Now, we just have to figure out how to get out of here…”

She falls silent at the sound of screaming in the adjoining hallways, of the cart wheels screeching along their rails.  The screaming, angry roars demanding to know _who_ was in the vault and _what_ they were after.  Harry turns to Hermione, stricken, not sure how on earth they were meant to get out of this one.  Hermione takes a breath, and strides across the room to the vault door.  She glances outside, and gestures for him to join her.  The cart they had traveled in is gone, but she looks down and Harry sees it's not all that far to the next floor. 

They just needed to jump.

Hermione steels herself and then lets herself fall, landing in a heap beneath.  Harry follows seconds later and all seems relatively well until they look at the angry heap that reveals itself to be a half-blind, very angry dragon.  The yelling is louder and there are calls of ‘empty!’, ‘gone!’ and ‘find them!” which echo all around.  The dragon rears, outstretches its wings and there are screams of terror as a burst of fire spews from its mouth.  Harry can smell singed flesh and feels ill, but nevertheless steers Hermione around the dragon until they’re able to clamber onto its back.

“This is worse than the thestrals,” Hermione mutters, looking faintly sick as she points her wand at the chains which bind the dragon to the ground. 

The chains explode into pieces and the dragon, perhaps sensing freedom, pushes itself from the ground toward the light.  Cart tracks break away as it outstretches its wings, sending several people and goblins screaming down.  Harry clings on tight, blasting obstacles out of the way until finally, _finally_ , they see daylight.

Understandably, people scream when they see the dragon but it doesn’t seem to care as it continues flying upward, away from Diagon Alley, and toward freedom.

-o-

They find themselves in an open field when the dragon finally tires and lands what seems like hours later.  The beast seems happy to examine its surroundings, and they slip away unseen.

“Is this the fake?” Hermione whispers, pointing at the sword Harry held.

“Let’s see,” he answers.

He lays the Slytherin locket on a flat stone and draws the sword above his head, crashing it down onto the locket. 

Nothing happens.  No apparition, no snakes, no visions from the past.

“It’s the fake,” he growls, disappointed.

Hermione swears beneath her breath.

-o-

Harry glares at the blue flames as he recounts the list in his head for the umpteenth time.

Hufflepuff cup?

Check.

Sytherin locket?

Check.

Ravenclaw diadem?

To find.

Diary?

Destroyed.

Slytherin ring?

Destroyed.

Nagini?

To kill.

And then Voldemort will be mortal. 

Harry runs his fingers along the emeralds of Slytherin’s locket, trying to figure out how on _earth_ they’re doing to destroy it.  Or the cup?  Heck, they hadn’t even _found_ the diadem.  He doesn’t move as Hermione sits next to him and takes the locket from his hands, placing it around her neck.  The ‘S’ gleams in the setting sunlight, for an instant the same red of Voldemort’s eyes and Harry wants to tear it away from Hermione’s throat, hurl in into an abyss, be rid of it once and for all.

“We need to go to Hogwarts,” Hermione says, “to look for the diadem and get Gryffindor’s sword.”

Harry nods.  “I know.”

Hermione leans against his shoulder, her fingers playing with the locket’s chain.  Harry wraps his arm around her and pulls her close, resting his chin atop her head.

-o-

It’s a tiny village in the middle of nowhere.  Harry and Hermione set themselves up in a small park, concealed by their usual enchantments and defense fields.  They’re perhaps one week away from Hogwarts, where they need to gain entrance, perhaps talk to McGonagall.

Hermione’s cooking this time, citing he needs ‘time off’ and that it’s ‘her turn.’  He doesn’t argue, just watches as she stirs the pot and adds more ingredients.  Somewhere, someone is playing their radio, and the faint sound echoes across the otherwise empty ground. 

She turns toward the noise.  “This played at the Yule Ball,” she says dispassionately.  “We must be near a wizarding family.”

Harry nods.  “You were very popular, if I recall correctly,” he says, his lips tilting upward, remembering the sleek and shining knot she’d put her hair into, her nervous smile, the robes of periwinkle blue.

“Hm.”

He rises to his feet, and takes the ladle from her hand, placing it atop the conjured table.  She’s confused for a moment, as he places his other hand at her waist and draws her towards him.  The tune grows louder, perhaps the owner is throwing a party, but it suits them well.

“This isn’t dancing, Harry,” Hermione says, a minute-or-so later, “it’s shuffling in a circle.”

He grins.  “Are you enjoying yourself?”  She falters as she looks up, but gives a small nod.  “Then it’s dancing.”

She laughs for the first time in what seems like months.  He feels an upsurge of relief and presses his lips to her forehead.

 In the adjoining street, a lamplight flickers out.


End file.
